Paint
by Covinsky
Summary: Lucaya one-shot. All the greatest love stories Maya could think of were happening around her. So, when she's told to paint a love story for art class, piece of cake, right? Nope. Angsty!Maya.


All the greatest love stories Maya could think of were happening around her.

Exhibit A: Shawn and her mom.

Exhibit B: Cory and Topanga.

Exhibit C: Zay and himself.

Exhibit D: Smackle and Farkle.

And, finally, folks, if you'll take a quick look to your left: Riley and Lucas.

So, when her art teacher instructed the class to paint a love story by Friday this week, she should have had an obscene amount of inspiration. All Maya had to do was look in any direction—there was a love story just waiting for her. Well, not for _her_ , obviously, but _for_ her.

"What does love mean to you?" Mrs Kossal had asked the class. God, that was a loaded question. She was seventeen for Christ's sake, never been kissed, never had a boyfriend. What _did_ love mean to her?

 **A turbulent timeline of Maya Hart's understanding of love thus far**

· At six: love meant sadness and loss. Love meant a dad that wasn't ever coming back, and half a mom who made him leave. But that wasn't love—Maya knows that now.

· At seven: love meant a brunette the same age as her who loved to laugh, who loved to share and hope, who loved to call her Peaches.

· At thirteen: love wasn't just Riley Matthews, but a Huckleberry from good ole Texas, who put thought into their little game and brought a goddamn harmonica to school just for her.

· At seventeen: love was still a Huckleberry from good ole Texas, who put thought into their little game and brought a goddamn harmonica to school just for her. But of course, she couldn't paint _that_ —love was still Riley Matthews too, so Maya kept her mouth closed and her heart locked away.

* * *

When Maya had told Riley about her new assignment later that day at lunch, her best friend had vibrated with excitement. "You could paint me and Lucas!"

 _Yes_ , _I could_ , she thought. Or she could stab herself with a sharpened end of a paintbrush—same sensation either way. _That's not fair_ , Maya chided herself. _Be nice._

So she forced a smile and said, _maybe_ , _Honey_.

She probably would end up painting Riley and Lucas, for lack of better models. Shawn was out of town on a travel assignment, Cory got way too damn neurotic about being drawn, Zay couldn't sit still for a second, and Smackle didn't see a lot of point in art.

 _It's okay, just turn off when you look at them_ , Maya thought to herself. She had gotten used to turning off when she looked at Riley and Lucas. She had too many years of experience—but not enough that when she touched him, she didn't feel a tsunami of shivers go down her spine. That when she looked— _really_ looked—into his calm, green eyes, she didn't feel like crying. That when he said her name—so softly like it was a church prayer—she didn't want to die of longing.

"Sundance, can you move your cowboy head to the left?" Maya commanded from behind a canvas in the school art room. It was Thursday afternoon, and—surprise—she ended up painting Riley and Lucas.

"Maya, can you call me by my real name?" Lucas retorted, nonetheless complying with her demands. He was sitting next to Riley, his arm around her, the golden, fading 6 o'clock light from the window now hitting his perfect face too goddamn perfectly. But his eyes, his eyes, they were right on the artist, they never left.

She was almost done, just finishing some final details on Lucas' face. To be honest, she didn't need them to sit for her anymore. She had every contour on his face memorized by now (to be _really_ honest, she had an entire sketchbook stashed under bed devoted to his face) and could have painted from memory. She didn't know why she didn't dismiss them half an hour ago, or why she even asked them at all.

Silence hung heavy in the air. Maya painted. Riley breathed. Lucas stared.

"Maya, you know is the first time you've done a real painting of Lucas and me! What colours are you using? Purple?" Riley wondered, breaking the still quiet. Ever the obedient model, she hadn't so much as blinked until that moment.

 _Of course I know. And no, no purple._ Maya only answered in her head, instead focused on mixing cold ocean and warm sunlight for just the right shade of fairytale forest floor in Lucas' eyes.

"Happy colours," she replied aloud at last, looking up with a sigh. "You'll like it, Honey."

"I know I will, Maya." Riley Matthews smiled so wide at Maya Hart then. It the first real move she'd made since sitting down two hours ago.

Right then—looking at the brunette the same age as her who loved to laugh, who loved to share and hope, who loved to call her Peaches—looking at her best friend's smile—it was okay that Lucas loved her, because Maya loved her even more. In that moment, Maya knew it was worth keeping her mouth closed and her heart locked away. That's what love meant to her.

* * *

"Maya, can I see you for a second?" Mrs Kossal asked, as Maya was about to leave the art room.

"What's up?" the blonde squeaked, almost afraid to know. She had submitted her Riley/Lucas portrait at the beginning of the lesson, and was subject to a depressing amount of "Awww!s" from her peers. For once, she didn't at all feel like being complimented on her work.

Mrs Kossal led her to the back of the classroom, where the portrait was stored.

"Your piece. It's beautiful, you capture a perfect likeness. It's extremely precise—I mean, look at the little flakes of gold in Riley's eyes. The tiny shadow of a dimple in Lucas' cheek. It's impressive," her teacher remarked. She was right—it looked exactly like what it was supposed to be: Riley and Lucas, two people Maya loved so much it hurt.

"Thanks, Mrs Kossal, that means a lot," Maya lied. Truth be told, the painting felt empty. She felt the same amount of accomplishment she would have if she had copied a photograph using tracing paper.

"I don't exactly mean it as a compliment, Maya. It's _too_ precise, there's a microscopic proximity here that I don't like," her mentor critiqued, vaguely gesturing towards the entire painting. "It feels clinical."

 _Ouch_. Was she that obvious?

"No, you're not," Mrs Kossal replied. _Did I just say that out loud_?

"Yes, you did," her teacher continued, leaving Maya horrified. "Maya—"

"Look, Mrs Kossal. I think 'clinical' is a little too harsh. I used happy colours!" Maya interrupted, suddenly defensive over her shitty painting. Her teacher laughed almost pityingly.

"Maya, I know I'm your teacher, but I'm an artist too. And this isn't art, not by our standards. It's a picture you painted yesterday for a class. 'Happy colours' are a weak substitute for love." Well, yes they are. But Riley doesn't need to know that.

"I asked you to paint a love story. What love means to _you_ …" Mrs Kossal trailed off. Maya knew what she was getting at. She was an artist. She saw in feelings. "I've seen you do paintings of the people you love. You drew Farkle as a bird. Riley had hearts zooming out of her like sunrays. Lucas—Lucas was blurry. Like you couldn't see straight. That's art."

"Look, thank you for the concern. Really. I appreciate it. But this _is_ what love means to me. Love means letting go, and I'm sorry if that came across as clinical but that's what love is." Maya said helplessly, fidgeting with her belt loops and cringing as the words dropped out of her mouth, hitting the paint-splattered floor like empty plastic. She felt hot, stupid tears surfacing in her eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Maya."

There was a pause. A pause where Maya briefly considered dragging a knife through the canvas and throwing it away forever.

"I'm sorry too."


End file.
